


Nameless

by pluto



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Pete's World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-30
Updated: 2010-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-08 20:38:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluto/pseuds/pluto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose doesn't know what to call him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nameless

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a fluffy thank you fic for [](http://ladymako71.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladymako71**](http://ladymako71.livejournal.com/), but turned into something else a bit angstier. Based on a fluffy prompt from [](http://darthneko.livejournal.com/profile)[**darthneko**](http://darthneko.livejournal.com/). It almost became the start of my Tardis_BigBang story, but I think I prefer it as a short standalone. I do really want to explore more of the Pete's World Doctor and Rose, eventually.

Rose's fingers trace out slow, lazy circles on the top of her thigh as she lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. She tries not to think about the emptiness beside her, the now-cool spot where (the Doctor? John Smith? What does she call him?) so recently laid.

For so long she was so sure that the universe (_universes_) meant for them to be together, that it would bring them together against all impossibilities. Certain things were constants, certain combinations of events, of people--she'd learned that, searching for a way to break through the walls of her quantum reality--and for all that time she'd _believed_ that she and the Doctor were one of those constants.

Now she doubts.

She hears the floor creak elsewhere in the apartment: it's him, stirring about restlessly, pacing as he has every night since she brought him home with her.

Him. Rose asked him what she should call him, if she should stick to the Doctor, or if they ought to come up with something else. He'd looked at her, shrugged, and then launched into high-energy dissection of Jackie's new look.

She doesn't recall the Doctor caring so much about clothes.

But he is still the Doctor, her Doctor, sort of... Although put like that (_her_ Doctor), it is a bit twisted if she thinks about it too hard--the _real_ Doctor, the other Doctor, gave this one to her, like a replacement puppy. Like a new doll to quiet a girl's tears over her previous, broken one. Only this puppy is more likely to bite; this doll conceals a sharp tongue behind its pretty mouth. This Doctor is restless and paces her house in the middle of the night when he thinks she is sound asleep.

Rose was afraid, at first, that he would just walk out, that he would go out that door and never come back. Worse yet, a part of her hoped he would just go, and uncomplicate things.

A tiny part of her still hopes that. She hates it.

There's a creak from the hallway just outside the bedroom door. Rose rolls over quickly, drops her hand to the mattress and closes her eyes. Not long after, she hears the bedroom door open and footsteps cross the room. The bed sinks on his side.

She should breathe deep and even, let him think she is sleeping. She rolls over, instead, sees him sitting on the edge of the mattress. He glances over at her, flashes her an apologetic grin.

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Not really," she says. He raises an eyebrow, kicks out his feet and drops down on the bed beside her. A handspan of space separates their bodies; she can feel it, cold and canyon-like between them.

"Can't sleep? You know, on Belby Prime they have this lullaby--"

He stops, abruptly.

"This lullaby?" she prompts, rolling over to face him. His hands are behind his head, his eyes fixed on the glow-in-the-dark stars pasted to her ceiling.

"Ohhh, it doesn't matter." He pulls a face. "Dull story, anyway. You should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."

"Big day doing the wash?" Rose says, but she knows what he won't say: it doesn't matter because he can't travel like that anymore. He's basically human now, trapped in this place as much as she is. She hoped, at first, that they'd figure something out between her dad's money and Torchwood; but he didn't seem interested. He'd made a lot of "Won't work!" remarks, and then wandered off. She'd found him slurping a banana milkshake and chasing ducks in a nearby park.

He turns, so that his back is facing her. Rose wants to touch him, but she doesn't.

"Let's go on an adventure tomorrow," she blurts.

He doesn't respond at first, and then when he does, she wishes he hadn't. "All right! Where shall we go? The chippie? Tesco's? How about Jackie and Pete's--Tony hasn't drooled on me in nearly two days now! Or maybe if you're really feeling wild we could drive up to Dålig Ulv Stranden and start hoping for a blue box to show up!"

She wants to snap at him, but she doesn't know what to call him. Instead, she bursts into tears, smothering the sound into her sleeve, rolling away quickly so he won't know. But in the drawn out silence between them, it's impossible to hide her soft, hiccupping breaths.

The bed shifts as he moves. Rose feels the warmth of him against her back.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," he whispers, and for a moment he's just her Doctor, the real Doctor, the only Doctor. But the illusion fades fast as she feels wet against her neck; how often did the Doctor she knew shed a tear so easily?

Still, she rolls over and pulls him into a hug. She's stopped crying, at least. Maybe that's what the (real) Doctor hoped for--she'd be too busy trying to salvage this mess he's left behind to feel angry at him for abandoning her, too.

That's unfair of her, she knows, but she still feels that way.

When the man in her arms looks up, she realizes he must feel much the same. His tears, she sees by the twist of his lips, the scowl of his brow, are driven by anger and frustration. The last thing he probably wants is her pity. And yet that's what she has for him: pity.

Rose mashes her lips against his forehead, kisses him quiet.

"Let's go somewhere, tomorrow," she whispers. "Anywhere. There must be something you want to do, something you've never done."

He answers, so bitterly Rose's heart aches: "I've never done anything; he's the one who did it all. I just _remember_."

Rose clutches him. "You ran in the park. You chased the ducks and had a banana milkshake," she says, at first comforting, and then a little angry, a little bitter, herself. "You ate fish and chips and had a beer and Pete tried to show you how to drive. You laughed at Jackie's new dog and pushed Tony in the swings." She takes a deep breath. "You kissed me."

And more than that, but Rose doesn't say so. It doesn't need saying. It was awkward and nice and wonderful but strange and messy and not at all what she'd been expecting. She loved him both more and less, after they slept together.

Rose thinks he feels the same, judging by the expression on his face.

"Rose," he says, and then his voice trails off as eyebrows bunch together. He breathes. "Take me... take me... Ohhh--Take me ice skating!" He shows his teeth in the expression she thinks of as "the cover up," maniacally grinning without any humor, as if he hopes the gleam of his teeth with distract his opponent.

"Ice skating!" She tries to smile and laugh. "But it's not winter."

He shrugs. "So?"

"So where'm I gonna find ice?"

He arches his brows. "Dunno. It's an adventure!" His smile this time is less, but it's so much more real that she suddenly feels much better. This time her laugh is genuine.

"Well. All right, then. Adventure it is." She puts on a slightly indignant expression. "And didn't I suggest that in the first place?"

"I suppose you did." He shrugs. "Can't help it if you're brilliant, can I?"

She prods him in the breastbone. "And don't you forget it."

He hugs her this time, holds her tight and close. "As if I ever could," he murmurs. "You're all that I've got in this world, Rose."

She hugs him back, and vows to change that. She listens to his breathing and the slow, steady beat of his single heart. She wants to whisper his name, comfort him with it, so she can't help the question that comes out of her mouth: "What do I call you?"

He breathes, but now it's shaky, his heart beat quickening. When he finally answers, it's not the answer she hoped.

"I don't know," he says. "I really don't know. I'm sorry."

She finds his hands, laces their fingers together, squeezes. The silence stretches out between them; the brief joy she saw on his face is gone. She aches for him.

"It's all right," she says. "We'll find that, too."


End file.
